Poetry

I may not be THE truth

But I am A truth

The past is not some noose

Not some big excuse

Yet it has much use

Since it is the cruc-ible

Yourself and my cruc-ifix

We may be able to reduce

But let's not try to improve

Let us simply live and do

Because that is us

All we ever were

Ever are because

To the future we refer

Into my arms you run

In your droves

You sew and farm

Please come

My orange groves

Your dreams are mine

We all define

This Paradise

We come One

The Moon and Sun

The stars

All stars

Superstars

Trap stars

Rap bars

Crap bars

Wrappers of bars

Strippers and whores

Dippers and floors

Cripples and bores

Booting balls 

Dancing balls

Shooting balls

Shooting stars

Scratching claws

Etching Scrawls

Ditching Drawls

Creaking floors

Lamenting laws

Obeying laws

Celebrating laws

Of Nature

Of land

Of rocks

Of God

The flood

The mud

The crud

Our life

Our strife

We cry

And yes there is pollution

Yes there is degradation

Yes there is subjugation

Yes there is greed

YEs there is sloth

Yes there is envy

And jealousy

And violation

Involuntary insemination

Insubstantiation

And all of this is

Righteous

Hunger

The Snitch

And the Seeker

For consciousness my friends

Is hungry

For evolution

Not revolution

Not reformation

The Growth of Love

From up Above

And down Below

Cupid's bow

Is on the pillow

And in the bank

So let's all sit back

And have a wank

A piece written by the undisposed inside outside all around undecided never known always understood and usually rejected.

A piece dictated and summoned by the intentionally indirect withstanding all existing nowhere but the heart and the inexplicably shadowy mind.

A piece chased by shadow and found only in light of shadow whose dark past is inverted by the light it reflects in the fading absorption of it’s own tail.

A piece for the golden eyes of the serpent to laugh at the blockade created by an infestation of deranged otters, who cry for days on end in agony of their own desertion of their own nature.

A piece in leu of the real truth that flutters against the winds of time, defying the winds of time, not knowing the winds of time, to whom the winds of time are the maker and the irrelevant.

A piece for my ancestry whose sparkly dues are due to none, and whose unwitting, unknowing and attentive disposition, was the only knowledge ever to offer them the sedative state we now chase endlessly faster in quest of an unattainably futuristic dream.

A piece for the illusion of solid rock, whose bashing and cajoling only served to deny the feathery lightness of hers and his endlessly penetrable exterior.

A piece for the days that exist in the mind of the year, and whose year exists only in the second which persists and persists to be noticed by the month, then one who knows the second finally stops and never tries to reach any of it.

A piece for the peace of mind slaughtered by the brain, free’d only by the pieces of pixel on which read the death of a friend; whose essence is short lived when he finds the demise it took for his mind’s life to liven was unbreakably shuddering back down the spine into the seed of time, and knowing it needs to seek down further into the bed of the earth.

A piece for the one true nature whose natural incompetence does not lack any but all, intentionally leaving vague the dreary reality of boundless joy.

A piece left idly to be found and for the finder to call-out for utter madness and ego and blind loyalist bumf, to the centre of gravity, which is of course his own dense belly.

A piece for the placation of that greedy life of thrust and crimson wet sap seeping through bark and barking through canine, instinctive elocutions regardless whether the seer sees, the hearer hears, the bearer bears down on the Christ to widen the bridge between the two tides. 

A piece to serve the purpose of perpetuating the petulance from whence was granted this one perfect wish of having to be.

The cheese

The cheese

The rage and the lust

The H-U-N-G-E-R

It is love lust

Love lost

Freedom's frost

Is cracking

Replaced

Re-framed

With more

Freedom frost

Legal lust

For drugs lost

And that's ok

For now

I bow

To my disappointment

In myself

And her body

Her rage

This one chronic

Is my longing

For her ovaries

I'm under siege

But I still believe

In you and me

And this machine

Real stories

Real looks 

Red some books

Red the room

Red your looks

In my way

"Back in my day"

Yeah well it ain't

It's now

This day

And to-day

Is gonna be the fray

That will infiltrate

That's gonna unravel you

And give it back to you

To start again a new

And after this oblique

Spiritual review

We turn the screw

On a young recluse

Call me Dumbledoo

Or Scooby Doo

When your misuse

Melts my igloo

I'll build a zoo

I'm Matilda too

Cries, periods and poo

Enchanting creature of nature’s best,

Golden glint, buoyant as salty seas.

Burly will on a whimsical dreamer.

These are the bounty of you.

Wrapped in beauty with voice medicinal.

Vast unconquerable soul,

With coarse impenetrable soles.

These are the bounty of you.

Our chemistry left my egg well boiled,

Spirits made in Tetris perfection,

No point whisking, the cake is made.

These are the bounty of you.

Sunsets always dawn a new day,

What was is what is, without it can’t be,

Like hay to a field or dying to a tree,

These are the bounty of you.

Love begets love, a trickle to a drain,

An added colour to this palette of paint,

Landscape capable, I’ve found my blues.

These are the bounty of you.

I write for the days are numbered and the soul heavy’d by the dark,

I write for the crinkled piece of lip on the page is greater by half than the accumulations of the few who make me bitter,

I write for the simple pleasures of the wistful thinker are all but all that ever was and ever could be,

I write so that one day I may be older than the words this page has seen and feel none the worse off,

I write for the dreams those words create in the writer and in turn combine to make bigger words and bigger writers,

I write so the far off land of the dead seems both endlessly further off and infinitely closer,

I write so that I may lead an illusive existence into the jaws of the wild unknown space with naught but hope in my heart, and a feather on my chest.

On your high horse,

Perpetually reaching,

The better way is yours,

I am the curious ill-informed,

The confused misdirected,

Yet you long for what you see.

You: always wanting,

Always yearning,

For the subjugation,

Of the latest covet.

“Whilst I listen intently,

I respectfully disagree. 

Sir this is how it is,

I am here to help you,

We must ensure entitlement,

Requisite information is just,

Critical service provision,

Enablers of exploration.”

My bone is not worth picking,

Inherent and irrelevant,

Take no offence,

Comprehension is oxymoronic.

Yet ignorance, 

Blissful or no,

Is fault manifest,

Not yield of intention,

Therefore blame is futile.

Enthused by unsurprise,

Tentative query abandoned.

I turn and trot

On my high horse.